By Laura McHale Holland
My boy and I walk the bridge over the water, gray murk churning slowly by.
As a youngster, I longed to dive in, blend with the current. I threw my school pictures in each autumn instead, effigies of me, drowning.
My boy dashes ahead and climbs part way up the rail. I cach up, grab his arm. “Oh, Mommy, let’s jump in,” he says.
I wonder how fast we would fall, how much it would hurt to hit the water. “No, dear, we have a train to catch,” I say. I draw him down to the pavement and take his hand. We skip to the other side.
Soon we are by the tracks, hands in pockets. My thoughts drift from the bridge to the rails just a few feet away. Does everyone passing want to jump, or is it just a particular sort of person like me, like my son, someone with a bent difficult to explain, more difficult to shake?
The whistle blows; my son leaps onto the tracks. I leap, too, and await the train.